


Overdue

by alifeasvivid



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America is human, Based on a Tumblr Post, England is... something else, Human Names, M/M, Magical Realism, references to a tragic backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2019-03-04 01:33:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13353720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alifeasvivid/pseuds/alifeasvivid
Summary: "Can one steal that which is given freely?"Lonely wanderer Alfred F. Jones poses a question to the Universe and, after It decides enough time has passed, the Universe answers. For once.





	Overdue

**Author's Note:**

> Rated T cuz punching and also beer.
> 
> This is entirely and unashamedly based on that tumblr post where OP confesses to wracking up fines at libraries in multiple cities in the hopes that a librarian bounty hunter will chase them down, engage them in a bar fight, and then fall in love with them. In the version I saw, someone responded that as a person they thought it was funny, but as a librarian, it annoyed them and OP says "I’m newly terrified by the implication that librarians aren’t people and I’ve misjudged what exactly I’m up against."
> 
> And what's this miracle? Everyone's a grown-up and nobody's related! Awesome! Haha!
> 
> I've always enjoyed magical realism, so I thought I'd give it a go! It's just sweet and romantic, really, something that was fun for me to write.

Alfred F. Jones is a criminal. Sort of. He likes to think of himself as one, anyway. The constant stream of politely, even kindly and gently, worded fee notices at his P.O. Box in Roanoke, Virginia will attest to his delinquency, surely. He hasn’t been there in awhile, but he’s secure in the knowledge that the letters arrive all the same. The Roanoke post office certainly leaves enough messages on his prepaid cell, imploring him to please come and get his mail, so it’s really only a matter of time.

Unsure of his own current location outside of the vague idea that he’s somewhere in the liminal space created by the Rockies that straddle Colorado and Utah, he quietly finishes his first beer in a bar in some mountain town which has no name, in which no one could even tell you what a post office looks like, and which exists on no map.

Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he smiles to himself as he orders another beer and silently asks the Universe if one can really steal that which is given freely. The Universe responds that it’s only a matter of time.

To Alfred’s great delight, the door to the bar opens like in a scene out of an old Western film, the sunset silhouetting a slim figure in the creaky, wooden frame. The sweet, summer air of the mountains saunters in first and the figure follows after, allowing himself to be revealed in the dim light of the bar.

Alfred’s breath catches as this happens and he stares unabashedly as the man who enters strides up to the bartender and speaks quietly to her. His height is average, but that’s the first and last ordinary thing about him. His dusty blond hair is disheveled, sticking out at odd angles, his skin is exceptionally fair and flawless, at least what Alfred can see of it peeking out from his smartly tailored, dark green suit and sharp, khaki trench coat. His eyes sparkle in the low light and even from his place further down the bar counter, Alfred can tell how green they are. He’s definitely no local, but Alfred supposes he should have expected that. Most of his sins have been committed far from wherever this place is.

The bartender gestures her thumb in Alfred’s direction and it’s then that he turns his head away, smiling once more. This is it.

The man is at his side in seconds. “Alfred Franklin Jones?” he says in a clipped English accent.

Alfred sips his beer, facing forward, still smiling. “‘Fraid you’ve got the wrong Alfred F., mister. Mine doesn’t stand for anything.”

“Yes, I’m sure the rest of your being lacks conviction also, but I am not mistaken. I trust that you know who I am and why I’m here.”

Alfred casts a sideways glance at him, blue eyes alight with mischief and insubordination, before swirling his beer in the glass and taking another sip. “How can I know any of that when I don’t even know your name?”

The man sighs irately. “If you must call me something, you may call me Arthur.”

Alfred turns his megawatt, all-American smile on the man. “Okay, Arthur then. I think I’ve got some idea of who you are, but I’m not sure why you’re British.”

Arthur adjusts the cuffs of his suit jacket and looks Alfred directly in the eyes. “I am not, as you say, British. I serve the Bodleian Network of Libraries at Oxford University in England. I was assigned to your… rather exceptional case when you used the interlibrary loan system at Harvard to abscond with a copy of William Shakespeare’s  _ Much Ado About Nothing _ . A simple indiscretion like that might have been forgotten had I not been made aware of your many other violations here in the United States.”

Alfred’s grin widens and he keeps his gaze trained on Arthur’s as he lifts the pint to his lips, but doesn’t drink. “‘Rather exceptional,’ huh?” he asks coolly.

Arthur sputters momentarily before soothing himself. “Yes, as a matter of fact, yes. The frequency with which you fail to return library books and then disappear is  _ unusual _ and suggests an elevated level of premeditation that I simply cannot abide.”

“Alright. Fair’s fair. You caught me. How much do I owe you?”

Adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves again, Arthur smirks. “I fear that we have long since passed the point of monetary restitution, Mr. Alfred-the-F-Stands-For-Nothing-Jones. Is there any sense in asking you to come quietly or shall I be forced to embarrass a strapping young man such as yourself in front of these lovely tavern patrons?”

Alfred sizes up his opponent and it’s only at this close range that he can see how every inch of Arthur’s exposed skin is covered in markings which are only visible when they catch the light at certain angles. They look like runes almost and many partially disappear beneath his clothing, indicating that they probably paint his entire body. When he meets Arthur’s eyes again, he notices they are not only very impossibly green, but they also have a gold flicker to them. Suddenly remembering the transcendental nature of the bar’s location and what Arthur had said about not being actually British, it occurs to Alfred that he might be a little out of his depth at the moment. He looks away from Arthur and takes a larger swig from his beer. Without looking back at the man, he answers, “Option B.”

Arthur sighs, resignedly this time, and removes his trench coat and suit jacket. He drapes them neatly over the back of a barstool and is in the middle of rolling up the sleeves of his button-down shirt, revealing yet more markings, when he replies, “You don’t know what you’re dealing with, lad.”

Alfred sets down his beer and stands, letting Arthur get used to their height difference as he removes his own bomber jacket. “Well that’s never exactly stopped me before,” he drawls.

“Mm. Quite,” is all Arthur says before he throws the first punch which lands directly below Alfred’s diaphragm.

Alfred stumbles back, but recovers quickly given how effectively Arthur knocked the wind out of him. He swings, but deliberately doesn’t aim first, and misses.

Arthur’s fist flies toward Alfred’s head and Alfred catches him mid-strike.

“Don’t break my glasses, okay?” He grins and whirls Arthur around until he has the man locked back against his chest and he notes distantly that Arthur’s hair smells like parchment and india ink.

The hold is loose and Arthur easily escapes by jamming his elbow into Alfred’s gut. “Very well. It would, indeed, be quite a shame to damage that face of yours,” he teases as Alfred coughs.

The bartender and a few of her customers glance over at the commotion. She yells at them to take it outside, but otherwise no one reacts to their scuffle.

Arthur hurls more blows and even a few kicks at him and they’re powerful, but Alfred remains standing. This apparently surprises Arthur, who steps back a moment with his chest heaving. “You… you’re very strong.”

Alfred looks at him defiantly with his arm curled protectively over his stomach. “Ha. Yeah. Thanks for noticing.”

When Arthur grins, it’s clear that he’s impressed, but not amused. “Well then, enough of this.”

That’s all the warning Alfred receives as Arthur hoists him into the air without laying one finger on him and throws him down against the hardwood slats of the floor. Before Alfred can catch his breath and try to regain the ability to be upright or even fix his glasses, Arthur is on top of him, pinning him in place.

Arthur wrenches Alfred’s hands above his head and binds his wrists. Alfred cannot see the mechanism with which he does this, but he suspects it’s not corporeal. Arthur leans down, close to his face. “Just answer one question.”

Alfred wriggles slightly, testing Arthur’s solidity. Satisfied with his findings, he grins. “Sure. Shoot.”

“Why? Why steal from so many libraries?”

Alfred could probably tell him. Arthur would probably understand if he just explained how hard things were growing up and how he’d spend all the time he wasn’t in school at the library, reading anything and hiding from the staff at closing time, begging them to let him stay the night and keep watch when they finally caught him. He could probably tell Arthur how he never had  _ anything _ that was just his own except for the peace and stability he found among the stacks of books, but it had always been fleeting, so how could young Alfred not want to take a little of that quiet calm for himself?

After that, in all of his aimless wanderings he’d heard enough of the rumors that float around the collective consciousness of humanity to convince him that if he just kept up his thievery, someone would have to come for him eventually.

One more split second of thought while gazing up at the still somewhat breathless Arthur looking down at him with his green and gold eyes and shimmering, invisible tattoos is enough and Alfred decides that it’s all too much to explain with words, so he loops his bound wrists around Arthur’s neck and yanks him down, fast as anything, and kisses him hard on the mouth.

Arthur seems to melt into the kiss at the same moment he jerks back. He scans Alfred’s face warily, searching for any malintent.

But Alfred knows his smile at that moment is soft and genuine and he lets it just be there until Arthur mirrors it.

“You were waiting for this. For me.”

Alfred laughs. “Well, not you specifically. I don’t think I could have ever come up with someone as perfect as you in just my imagination.” He says so without pretense or guile and the pink that blooms on Arthur’s cheeks as a result pleases him.

Arthur smiles bashfully and ducks out from Alfred’s grip on his neck and releases the bindings on his wrists. He stands, coughs pointedly, and then extends his hand to help Alfred to his feet. “Yes, well, there is still the matter of your fine.”

Alfred takes the offered hand and allows Arthur to pull him upright. He dusts himself off and shrugs on his jacket as Arthur does the same with his suit and trench coats. “Okay. How much do I owe you?”

With a sharp tug on the belt of the trench coat at his waist, Arthur turns and heads for the door. “I’m certain we can arrange some way for you to work off your debt to… society. For stealing all those books.”

Alfred catches up to him, holding the door open for him as they step out into the crisp night air. “And what about for the kiss I stole?” he jokes, grinning cheekily.

Arthur grabs the collar of Alfred’s t-shirt, tugs him down to eye-level, and kisses him, softly and more deeply than Alfred did before. Arthur’s lips are quirked up, but his eyes are serious as the Universe answers in his voice, “You cannot steal that which is given freely.”

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are love! Comments are life!


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